Bumbling

Brutal 

pollinating of want,

a skin constellation

flickering.

Moment 

of arrested butterfly

so suddenly

stuck with thorns,

a decadence 
delayed. 

Overgrown

shoots bloom and 

fall in bunches, 
diverting nature.

O swept 
incandescence, 

if we were industrious 

as honey, we 

could be happy,
bumbling

through our season,

but reason waits

to see if garments

are as quickly changed

as swarms are charged

by the circuits of rain.